Five Things That Happened to Donald Long
by Hannibal the Animal
Summary: Five Things That Happened to Donald Long and One That Didn't


**TITLE:** _Five Things Happened to Donald Long & One Thing That Didn't_

**FANDOM**_:_ _Fringe_

**PAIRING:** _Donald Long/ Risa Pears, August/Christine_

**CHARACTERS:**_ Donald Long, August, July, Risa Pears, Christine Hollis, December_

**RATING:** _M_

**WARNINGS:** _Character deaths_

**SPOILERS:** _Season One, Episode Seventeen "Bad Dreams"; Season Two, Episode Eight "August"_

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** _Donald Long is the assassin from "August".__ Risa is the woman at the beginning of "Bad Dreams" with the stroller._

* * *

Donnie is twelve when he first meets a Watcher. He's sitting out on the front steps while his mom and aunts sit around and admire his new baby sister. It summer and hot outside so he eats an ice cream he bought from the ice cream truck and plays with a deck of cards. A tall older man in a black suit walks down the sidewalk, wearing a stetson and carrying a briefcase. Donnie pauses in his card game as the man proceeds to come up their walkway; he knows it's rude to stare, but the man has no eyebrows which looks strange.

Standing before Donnie, the man announces. "You are Donald Long."

"Junior," Donnie agrees, taking a lick of ice cream so that it doesn't drip down his fingers. "My dad's out right now. If you need to talk to him, he's at the dealership."

The man doesn't blink. "No. I am here to talk to you."

"Me?" Donnie looks at him suspiciously. "Wadda you want?"

"I have a job for you."

"What?" The man puts his three centre fingers on Donnie's forehead and something reverberates through him, a rush of thoughts and visions, things he hasn't thought yet, things he hasn't done yet and the sudden knowledge causes a jolt through his spine, his body convulsing for the briefest of moments. "What the heck?"

"You will grow older. You will work for us."

Donnie rubs at his forehead, mumbling, "Who are you?"

"You may call me December."

The man called December begins to leave, walking back down the sidewalk in the direction he came as Donnie tries to catch his breath.

Donnie drops his ice cream cone on the front porch as he runs after the strange man. "Hey wait!"

The man doesn't stop walking but Donnie catches up to him, his own feet matching the swift and steady pace of December's. "Why me?"

"You are able to separate yourself from your work. You won't make it personal."

"What will my job be?"

"You will...terminate for us."

Parts of the strange things Donnie saw when December had put his fingertips on him fall into place and he realises the man means that Donnie will be an assassin. "Wow."

"You will not take satisfaction in it, but you will be thorough which is what we need." The man's head tilts slightly to the side and Donnie realises that this _man_ isn't human. "You are able to understand your kind deeper than most."

December stops walking and pulls a strange flat box out of his suit pocket. "Take this." As Donnie holds the object, December uses his free hand to demonstrate that it flips open, not unlike the communicator device on Star Trek."It will let you stay in contact with us."

Donnie studies the strange markings that look like no writing he's ever seen. The device is heavy and worn, making him wonder who had it before. He looks up to ask December what the symbols mean and sees he's already walking on the next block.

"Wait!" He runs after the man again. "We need to shake on it." He offers out his hand and when December hesitantly shakes it, Donnie explains, "It's what you do when you make a business deal."

* * *

Donald is twenty-two when he gets his first job from the Watchers; he's still in college and he's strangely calm about the whole matter—'it's just a job, it's just a job, it's just a job', he tells himself over and over again. And he starts to believe it.

He sits in his car eating jelly doughnuts and listening to the radio as he waits for the man to arrive; he uses a napkin to hold the sweets so that his fingers don't get sticky and he keeps the music low so that he doesn't get distracted or attract attention.

He sighs as he longs for warm coffee to wash down the sugar and help him focus; his target arrives to the warehouse he's surveilling and he puts his sweets aside, stealthily leaving the car. He follows the target for some distance, a man name Dunner. Targets must be taken care of by midnight.

Donald can walk across almost any surface silently, a skill he prides himself in as it is so critical to have; his fingers deftly begin to twist the silencer on, readying himself for blood.

Trigger pulled, he looks down at the dead body at his feet, blood beginning to pool on gravel.

He quits college the next day.

* * *

Once, Donald falls in love with a girl, actually wants to marry her, but deep down he suspects he can't, that he shouldn't. Her name is Risa—dark skin, dark eyes, nearly ten years younger and so kind he almost can't stand it. He loves spending long weekends away with her, wasting hours making love and forgetting about what he has to go back home to, the empty life of an assassin. She's training to become a teacher and they simply don't talk about what he does for a living, just that he makes enough money to lavish her with dinners and gifts.

She's funny and clever and talks about what she wants for the future—becoming a teacher, having children, living in a brownstone. She wants large holiday get-togethers filled with family and friends, wants a brand new car, wants a normal, ordinary life. He spends hours trying to to figure out how he can make that work, how he can give that to her, but an answer just doesn't seem to come to him.

On their last weekend together, in upstate New York, Donald finds himself still restless and awake at three in the morning. He lays on his side, watching her sleep, thinking about the two of them and whether love is enough to keep them together. He's not stupid—he knows it isn't.

He goes out to the walkway of the motel in his boxer shorts, leaning on the railing to look at the empty street below, illuminated by the street lamps; it's quiet here and as he lights his cigarette, he can sense one of i_them/i_ is near. He takes a long drag of the cheap tobacco and waits for the Watcher to stand next to him.

"She has a future that you're not part of," July finally says.

Smoke curls out of Donald's lips and he still doesn't look over at the being next to him. "I know."

This seems to take the Watcher by surprise. "You do? How?"

Donald smirks and takes another long drag of the cigarette. "Humans just know certain things. Intuition."

July says nothing, apparently processing the information. After that Sunday, Donald stops returning Risa's calls, allowing her destiny to take its course.

* * *

Donald gets older and enjoys life as an agent for the Watchers, helping them with what they aren't able to do themselves—they can let people die, but they simply aren't able to kill people. He thinks of himself as maintenance, a butcher, a soldier, the oil that keeps the cogs turning. And Donald is not immune to time; while he enjoys the occasional casual relationship, he understands the importance of having no one close to him. He makes the holiday phone call to his younger sister and her family as well as the annual calls to his brothers, but aside from that, he has no intimate contact with others. It's not just for his safety, but theirs.

There's a girl down at the coffee shop who gives him the sweetest of smiles when he comes in every morning but he doesn't do more than smile back. She would be trouble—the young ones always are.

* * *

Donald is off buying groceries for the week when the communicator in his pocket blips twice, indicating that the Watchers are trying to contact him. He flips open the cover and sees the three lights that represent a warning, that change is coming that should not happen. He puts the groceries in the trunk of his car and quickly gets into the car to study the printout that awaits him.

The FBI knows of six of the hits he's done in the past ten years; he's not sloppy but sometimes there are unavoidable mistakes that tie him faintly to his work. He actually averages two a year, though this one will be the third since January.

He studies the girl's photo; she's pretty, has a nice smile that tells him she's a nice person. This causes him to frown for a moment as he wonders why she must be terminated—he's not in the business of killing nice people. But he pushes his feelings and concerns aside—it is not his place to question those who guard the laws of physics. That doesn't stop him however from glancing at the printout once more as he starts the car, ready to track her down.

* * *

He reaches the girl before August does, finding her tied up and gagged in a chair. She stares at him for a moment as he stands in the doorway and when he shuts the door, in the dark with her, she begins to scream against the handkerchief in her mouth. She thrashes against her bonds, putting up an incredible fight as he slowly circles her and the bedpost she's tied to. He stands there for a moment, the bed between them, and then without thinking, he sits down on the mattress, turning himself to face her. Her eyes dart wildly, studying him in the dim light and he can see she's trying to figure out if she recognises him.

Out of his jacket he pulls the gun, starting to attach the silencer; she sees the weapon and gives a muffled whimper, her body jerking back. She's terrified and Donald has a hard time seeing her as more than a child. An ingénue—he's never had to kill someone who looks so young. She starts to cry and something inside him breaks.

"I'm sorry. Please don't cry," he says softly.

It's one thing for his targets to be taken by surprise while they're taking trash out to the alley or while they're brushing their teeth, but to have her already here like this is just too much. And all of the people he's killed in the past have been scum, their sins finally having caught up to them—she's done nothing to anyone, she's paying for the mistakes of others. It's painful to think she doesn't get the opportunity to run, that she's obviously been contemplating her imminent death since the Watcher took her.

"It says your name is Christine," he says gently, trying to make her feel a little more human in her final moments.

She nods slightly, a fresh round of tears running down her cheeks. Her eyes silently beg him to help her and for a moment his fingers clench as he thinks about untying her wrists. She doesn't deserve this, but he has no choice. He nearly begs her to stop crying, that this is hard for him, too, but he can't appear out of control so he clenches his lips shut. He can tell from the way she's swallowing that her jaw aches from the gag and he can see the bruises on her wrists.

His voice sounds too loud in this dark motel room, out of place as he tries to be soothing. "Are you hurt?"

She gives a hesitant shake of her head, her eyes wet and glittering in this dim light.

She doesn't have much longer to live and he realises he's trying to delay the inevitable. "Are you thirsty?"

She gives a hesitant nod this time and he nods as well. He leaves her to go into the restroom, finding a glass cup with a paper lid; he doubts it's clean and as he leaves the restroom, he uses his handkerchief to wipe off the smudges. There's a half-used water bottle sitting next to the tv in the rickety entertainment system and he opens it, pouring what's left into the glass.

He places the gun to her head, letting her know that he's not going to allow disobedience. "No screaming."

He slides the gag out of her mouth, letting her take a moment to stretch her jaw before he raises the glass to her lips. She's obviously parched and gulps down the warm water, gasping for air when she finishes. He discards the empty glass onto the bed and they watch it bounce slightly before it comes to rest on the cheap bed cover; he listens to her breathing and with the gun still to her head, he finally has to ask,

"You aren't going to ask why?"

She turns her head against the silencer, her large doe eyes still watering. "Please. Just let me go. I won't tell anyone. I just want to go i_home/i_."

"I'm sorry. I don't have a choice," he apologises again, wanting to ease her mind. "It's not because you're a bad person—it's because someone else made a bad decision." He finds himself angry for being put in such a shit position. "The man that took you...if he'd just let you be, I wouldn't have to fix this."

Her eyes become slightly larger. "Fix what?"

"You. He tried to change your destiny. It's not allowed." He is quiet for a moment and then adds, "I don't want to do this. You seem like a nice person—it's in your eyes."

He pulls the gag back up before she can say anything else or scream, returning to his original position on the opposite side of the bed. He doesn't want any of the splatter on him. Christine doesn't close her eyes—no, instead she stares into his, almost appearing resolute to accepting what's going to happen. He raises the gun, pulls the trigger without saying anything and then the soft tearing of air and skin and bone...

She slumps forward, her chin resting on her chest. Donald sits down heavily on the bed again.

It's not more than a minute later when the door is thrown open and in comes the Watcher who'd brought this whole situation around in the first place. He stares at Donald and as he shuts the door behind him, he tries to take a step towards Christine but his body freezes. His head tilts from side to side, trying to read the confusing vital signs as the life leaves her body. The Watcher finally circles her widely, coming to stand next to Donald.

The Watcher looks at him and hoarsely asks, "Why?"

Donald's answer is quiet and almost hateful. "You iknow/i why."

The Watcher turns to look back at the girl, he seems to wilt in front of Donald, no longer ominous and imposing, but a strange creature trying to pass as human and failing. His hand rests on August's shoulder; Donald knows that the Watcher doesn't understand what the gesture means, but he can't help but try to comfort him anyway. The Watcher then crawls across the bed, seemingly transfixed with the body, kneeling on the mattress to stare at her blankly. Donald stands, sighing. He begins to take apart his gun and he finally has to ask,

"Who is she? Why did you save her?"

August's hands flit around the girl's head, never touching, large pale moths. "I saw her many years ago. She was a child. Her parents had just been killed. She was crying. But she...she was brave. She crossed my mind...somehow. She never left it. I think... It's what you kind calls...feelings. I think..." the Watcher turns back to look at him, a single tear sliding down his cheek. "I love her."

This admission shocks Donald—he wasn't aware that the Watchers were able to experience human emotions. He watches as the being finally touches the dead girl, removing the gag, untying her gently, letting her still bleeding forehead rest on his shoulder. The Watcher's hands stroke her long hair, his eyes closing as the tears continue to fall. Donald feels sick at what's he's done. August lifts her face up to his his eyes searching her unseeing ones, his long thumb caressing her cheek. Donald wonders what he's looking for, if the Watcher is trying to find a way to fix this. Or maybe she's perfect this way—just as unfeeling as the Watcher himself, finally understandable and attainable.

Donald thinks of the girl at the coffee shop, of Risa, of the family he keeps his distance from. But isn't love worth it? Trying to save them from anything bad?

Donald stays with the Watcher and when it's apparent they need to leave because the FBI is close, they make to leave. August holds the girl's hand, lingering as if he hopes he made a mistake and the girl will wake up at any moment, that her glassy eyes will flutter, that her slack mouth will start forming words. He has no idea what to say, if there is anything he can say.

They finally get out of the hotel room, both off in their separate ways; Donald drives away and the Watcher disappears into shadows. He knew that this death would be one to haunt him even before August showed up and when he arrives home to his empty flat, he pours the almost empty pot of coffee in the sink, showers off, and crawls into bed. He lies there, enjoying the quiet of the room. His mind takes him back to his childhood, when he was twelve and he first met December.

"_You are able to separate yourself from your work. You won't make it personal."_

"_What will my job be?"_

"_You will...terminate for us."_

"_Wow."_

"_You will not take satisfaction in it, but you will be thorough which is what we need. You are able to understand your kind deeper than most."_

He closes his eyes, trying to imagine that he doesn't care about the fact that he killed a girl who spent half a day terrified out of her mind, confused, not realising her bought hours were a _mistake_. And that he watched a being that couldn't feel tear apart the fabric of space and time (if only for a moment) to save someone who didn't even know he exists.

Donald tells himself it's just a job and falls into a deep sleep without dreams.


End file.
